


Pursuit

by bittenfeld



Category: CHiPs
Genre: M/M, Police Procedural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 02:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4001650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittenfeld/pseuds/bittenfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ponch and Jon’s routine patrol one day turns into a multi-car highway pursuit.</p><p>(Just an unfinished bit, an excuse to write a detailed police procedural.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pursuit

Sarge wouldn’t believe it if Ponch tried that old “my alarm clock didn’t go off” excuse again – even though it was the truth. Which meant Frank Poncherello had ten minutes to shower and shave and get into his uniform, then ride down to Central.

It was seven-thirty-five when he arrived. Briefing was almost over.

He didn’t try to sneak in – that would have been impossible. So he waited until the watch sergeant reached the end of a sentence, and then he walked right in and took his seat beside Jon. Jon eyed him oddly, but didn’t say anything.

Ponch grinned at his partner, then turned his attention to their supervisor standing at the podium.

Sergeant Getraer scanned his notes. “Cal-Trans has informed us that they’ll be conducting a controlled burn near the 94-West / 15-North interchange. And remember, BOL LBPD’s suspect. Okay, that’s all. Hit the streets.”

As the officers filed past the rostrum on their way out the door, the sergeant called to Frank. “Poncherello, do you have an excuse for being late - again?”

“…umm… my alarm clock didn’t go off…?” Frank tried hesitantly, to a murmur of chuckles around the room.

The silver-haired man looked askance. “Y’know, with the, uh, generous raises we all recently received, maybe you can afford to buy a new alarm clock now.”

The chuckles grew louder.

“Um, yes sir, I’ll do that sir.”

“All right. Get the rest of the notes from Baker.”

“Yes sir.”

Frank followed Jon out. “What was that about LBPD’s suspect?”

They headed down the corridor toward the parking lot. Jon adjusted his helmet. “Long Beach is looking for a 207 suspect – they think he’s down here. Blue Toyota pick-up, some left rear-end damage.”

“Who’d he kidnap?”

“A little eight-year-old girl. They think he raped her too.”

A deprecating breath escaped Frank’s nostrils. “Bastard.”

“… And there’s a tie-up on 15-South, north of Kearny Villa Road. Empty tanker overturned, blocking three lanes, couple hours ago. Gonna be hell for the morning commute.”

”Yeah,” Frank agreed.

“Other than that, get your 314’s in by the 15th; and third-quarter firearms quals are scheduled for the next two Saturdays. And don’t forget the beach party this Sunday.”

”That, I won’t forget.” Frank grinned as he mounted his Kawasaki. “Hey, Baker, if you don’t have a date for Sunday, can I be your date?”

This time Jon grinned. “I dunno. How sexy do you look in a bikini?”

“Hey, you should see me in Speedos. And I even go topless.”

“Well, in that case, how’d you like to be my date for Sunday?”

“I’d love to… darling.”

“Watch what you say – I just might have to arrest you for contributing to the delinquency of a peace officer.”

The ignition of Frank’s motor drowned out his laugh of delight. Over the noise, he yelled to his partner, “Yeah, and would you strip-search me too?”

Jon shifted into drive, edged away from his partner, as he tossed back: “Nah, I’d leave that to Sergeant Getraer.”

Frank took off after him. “Yeah, but would you at least watch?”

Traffic was light on I-8 eastbound, slightly lighter that is, than the normal bumper-to bumper 7:30 AM commute. No doubt a lot of the traffic was still snarled north of the I-15 interchange. Still it was too tight for any speeders – it was really too tight to go much over 40. No expired registrations, no mechanicals, not even an early-morning tippler. Gonna be a slow morning.

“Hey,” Jon called over the wind, “what say we check out the t/c on 15, see if they need an extra couple of hands?”

Frank nodded, pointed toward the College Avenue exit where they could turn around and go back on I-8 West to the I-15. The two cycles peeled off onto the off-ramp.

Early morning university classes always caused traffic back-up on College Avenue, so connecting vehicles on the right couldn’t maneuver into the left-hand lane. Instead, Frank and Jon had to travel up the hill to the second stop-light before they could finally make a U-turn. As they waited at the red light, they observed the traffic. A lot of college students were arriving for early-morning classes – a lot on bikes, a lot walking carrying backpacks.

“Hey, partner.” Frank pointed a gloved hand toward the Jack-in-the-Box across the intersection. “Whadd’ya think of that green Mustang?”

Jon checked out the Ford parked in the side lot, front end facing the street. “I think that front plate is being held on with wire instead of bolts.”

“Since when did the DMV start ordering front plates to be held on with wire?”

“Well, let’s just say Sarge didn’t happen to mention it at briefing this morning.” Jon reached for his radio to call in the Mustang’s plate.

Squealing rubber interrupted him. Approaching on the opposite side of College Avenue and running a red light a block away, a black Trans-Am was pulling close to 50 mph. As the car accelerated past them, the distinct whine of a vehicle burglar alarm could be heard.

Immediately the motors turned 180, code 3. The Trans-Am roared down the hill, abruptly swerving past a slower car, a yellow Mustang, then weaving from lane to lane a few times as it attempted to cut back in front of the Ford. In surprise, the Ford jammed on its brakes, and Frank and Jon had to maneuver around it quickly to keep from rear-ending it themselves. A sickening feeling squeezed Frank’s gut: at 50 miles an hour, the Pontiac would not be able to avoid the cars stopped at the light at the bottom of the hill. Evidently the Pontiac realized it at the same moment, and jammed on his brakes. Frank cringed, anticipating the crash of metal on metal.

But luckily the light at the bottom of hill changed on time, and traffic began flowing. Still, the Pontiac cut where he could gain a car-length, and several sets of brakes screamed. Frank hoped the near-disaster would scare the guy into laying off the chase, but evidently the jerk was either too bold or too drunk to be scared. Amid the confusion, other cars squealed to a halt, temporarily blocking the motorcycles’ paths. Frank and Jon had to ride on the shoulder to keep from losing the Trans-Am. Still he ignored the police cycles’ flashing red lights and ducked off onto the I-8 eastbound connector, accelerating.

Now that traffic was smoother, Frank reached for his microphone. “San Diego, 15-Mary-3 and 4 in pursuit of black Trans-Am, eastbound 8, east of College Avenue. Possible 10851, possible DUI. Request 10-28, 29. California plates: Zebra Mike Nora 8-6-2. Request back-up.”

“10-4, Mary-3 and 4. Zebra Mike Nora 8-6-2. 10-23. All units in the vicinity of 8 eastbound and College Avenue: 15-Mary-3 and 4 are in pursuit of a black Trans-Am…”

As the dispatcher notified all surrounding units, Frank and Jon continued pursuit. The traffic thinned out as they continued east, and when it could, the suspect vehicle accelerated to over 100 mph. Frank glanced at his speedometer: 110. Thank god the traffic was a light as it was – it could be a lot worse with a lot of innocent commuters in the way.

“Mary-4,” the radio crackled, “meet 7-Adam on Tac-2.”

“10-4, San Diego.” Frank barely took his eyes off the road a split-second to switch radio frequencies. “Mary 4, go ahead, 7-Adam.”

Barry Baricza responded. “Mary-4, I’m southbound College Avenue, north of the I-8. What’s your 20?”

“8-East, approaching the Severin Drive off-ramp.”

“How’s the traffic?”

Frank was already scanning the lanes ahead. Merging vehicles from the adjoining highway SR-125 hampered pursuit – in fact, one stupid day-dreaming driver in a blue Chevy almost took Jon out. Desperately Jon swerved to the left, nearly losing control of the bike, then steadied it and accelerated past the Chevy. A moment later, in a delayed reaction, the Chevy made a half-attempt at a right swerve.

Frank thumbed the mike button. “It’s getting heavier at SR-125, Bair. Looks like it could be slowed all the way through El Cajon. Suspect has slowed to 70, but he’s not stopping.”

“Roger,” Baricza acknowledged. “I’ll be there in a few. I’m right behind you.”

“10-4, Bair.”

“San Diego,” another voice cut in, “this is El Cajon unit 51-14, responding from area office. You got a 2800.1?”

“51-14, this is San Diego Mary-4. Yeah, we got a possible GTA, DUI. Black Trans-Am Zebra-Mike Nora 8-6-2, refusing to yield, and heading your way. Approximately 5 miles west.”

“Roger, Mary-4. I’ll be waiting.”

As Jon’s motor pulled up alongside, he tapped his gas gauge. Frank glanced at his own: the needle read empty. Hell, what a time to run out of gas. Neither he nor Jon had thought to fill up before they left the yard this morning – Frank’s mind had still been distracted with thoughts of his tardiness, and Jon had just automatically followed Frank’s lead. Well, nothing to do but drop out of pursuit momentarily to refuel. They were nearing the turn-off to the CHP El Cajon office, so Unit 51-14 should be able to take over pursuit while they gassed up.

Unit 51-14 was waiting a mile south of the station, already in position to pick up the chase. As the Trans-Am flashed past, the black-and-white accelerated right behind it.

Jon got on the radio. “51-14, Mary-3, we’re pulling out at Greenfield to re-fuel. Will re-join you in a few.”

“10-4, Mary-3,” the Impala responded.

The two motorcycles pulled into a Mobil station on the corner of Greenfield and East Main. As Frank filled up the tanks, Jon radioed the dispatcher. “San Diego, 15-Mary-3.”

“Mary-3 go ahead.”

“Anything on the Trans-Am yet?”

“Affirmative, Mary-3. Zebra Mike Nora 8-6-2 registered to Mary Jane Harmon, 4463 Meade Avenue, San Diego. No wants or warrants. San Diego PD has been notified to contact us if they receive a theft report.”

“10-4, San Diego.”

As Jon scribbled down the information, another siren wailed down the highway past their location. Frank was jogging over to the gas station attendant to sign the charge slip. The radio crackled and came alive again. “El Cajon, this is 51-26.”

The El Cajon dispatcher answered. “Go ahead, 51-26.”

“Suspect has caused an 11-80 at Lake Jennings off-ramp. I’m dropping out of pursuit to assist. 51-14 is still primary unit. Need 11-41, 11-85 at scene.”

“10-4, 51-26.”

Frank dashed back to his motor, slapping Jon across the back as he passed by. “C’mon, partner, we gotta catch up.”

Jon revved his throttle. “There’s an 11-80, Lake Jennings off-ramp.”

“Yeah, I heard.” Frank’s motor kicked into life, roared out into the street, Jon close behind.

Near the Lake Jennings exit, they had to avoid broken glass scattered across the road for some distance. It looked like beer bottles. A car with two flat tires had gone off the road and hit the embankment. The El Cajon unit sat behind it, flashers on. The driver and the officer stood on the shoulder. As the two motors passed by, the El Cajon officer raised an acknowledging hand.

Frank flipped the mike switch to contact the pursuit unit. “51-14, Mary-4, what’s your 20?”

“Nearing Dunbar turn-off, Mary-4. Got another unit behind me – one of yours. Suspect seems to be having trouble, driving erratic, shoulder to shoulder, can’t hold his speed steady. Right now, we’re going about 40. How’s the 11-81?”

“Looks okay, probably just an 11-83. What happened back there?”

“Oh, the guy was throwing beer bottles out the window. One hit my windshield. What’s your location?”

“We’re two behind you. How’s it going?”

“Looks like he’s blown his engine. Smoke pouring out. He’s slowing way down. I think he’s going to stop now. I’m pulling him over. We’re about three miles east of Dunbar Lane. Hurry up.”

From their position, Frank and Join could see flashing red and blue down the road. “We’ve got you in view, El Cajon. We’ll be right there.”

As Frank and Jon pulled up, two CHP units were parked behind the Trans-Am. The first unit stood nosed-out at a 45-degree angle; the second was behind the first and in in-line with the suspect vehicle. The first officer hunkered down by this left front fender, protected by the patrol car’s engine block. His pistol aimed across the hood at the suspect’s driver’s-side window.

The second unit was Baricza. Sliding out the passenger-side door of his car, shotgun in hand, he took his position behind the right rear corner of the first unit.

Frank and Jon pulled up behind Baricza’s unit, then hunker-ran to the rear of the cruiser, revolvers in hand.

The front officer called out to the suspect driver. “This is the police. You are under arrest. Do not move until you are told to do so. All right now, place your hands on top of the steering wheel with your palms up and open.”

A moment passed, then the suspect compliantly put his hands on the steering wheel as ordered.

“Now take the keys out of the ignition. Extend your arms, shoulders, and head through the window.”

Inside the car nothing happened

Butterflies quivered in Frank’s belly. No matter how many hot stops you made, no matter how many times you practiced, you never got used to it. You always wondered if this was the time you were going to buy it.

The primary officer repeated the command. “Take the keys out of the ignition. Show them to me, but do not throw them out. I repeat: do not throw them out.”

Slowly a hand poke through the open window, dangling the keys.

“Now extend both arms, shoulders and your head through the window.”

Both arms came out, then a head followed. It was a middle-aged Caucasian male with a fringe of salt-and-pepper hair, and dressed in a brown tweed jacket. The man peered back, curious, at the police cars.

All firearms pointed at the driver.

“Now, open the door from the outside, and push it all the way open.”

But this order only provoked an obscene outburst: “Goddamn you bastards! I’m gonna kill you all, you mutherfuckin’ pigs!”

Frank’s grip tightened on his pistol butt. He wondered if they’d end up having to take the guy out.

The El Cajon officer didn’t react to the obscenities, but merely began repeating his instructions. “Open the door from the outside and…”

The door slammed open, and the suspect almost lurched out of the vehicle.

“Stop where you are!” the officer commanded instantly. “Or you will be shot.”

That stopped the man. Whatever ideas he had had, he evidently decided against them.

“Now stand up, both hands over your head, and kick the door shut.”

This time the man obeyed without comment.

“All right, keep your hands up, elbows locked, and spread your fingers. Now turn around slowly until I tell you to stop.”

The man turned around slowly, if a little woozily. A bulge was obvious at the back of his waistband.

“Keep going… okay, stop,” the officer ordered when the man was finally facing away from the police vehicles. “Now, walk backwards towards me, keeping your hands up.”

This proved almost impossible: the guy was a good 1.5 at least, Frank surmised. Several times he almost lost his balance. When he got back to the rear of the cruiser, the officer stopped him. “Get on your knees, cross your right foot over your left. Put your hands on your head.”

While Jon covered the El Cajon officer approaching the suspect, Frank and Barry continued to watch the Trans-Am. All during the chase, there had been no sign of another occupant, but that was no reason to make any assumptions.

 . . . . .

 _to be continued_ … _someday_ …


End file.
